


Painted Faces

by abby_enchanted



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hell, Broody Zayn, Classic Liam, Clueless Harry, Devil louis, Just Niall, M/M, Supernatural Elements, thats it thats the fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 03:13:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16109591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abby_enchanted/pseuds/abby_enchanted
Summary: But none of what Liam said really matters, and Harry can’t remember half of it. No matter how you spin it, Harry ended up at St Augustine’s Lutheran Church anyways, with a tote bag full of seemingly innocent items. He’s got his headphones in, blaring the cheesiest pop tunes he could find, even though the online instructions told him not to bring any electronics.What’s the point of summoning the devil if you can’t take pictures to show your ex?-[Harry goes to Hell, Louis suddenly has a large problem, Liam's just looking for his friend, Zayn's got a job to do, and Niall's along for the ride.]





	Painted Faces

In Harry’s defence, he’s really not an occult-obsessed guy. Yeah, he has an Ouija board collecting dust in his closet, and maybe that sheer shirt with the black upside-down crosses wasn’t the best purchase he’s ever made, but everyone has little things like that. 

There’s no defence, however, for the stupid shit he’s attempting now.

Liam had tried to sway him from it. “It’s stupid, Harry,” He’d chided, “It won’t even work. You’ll be breaking and entering for nothing.” Harry hadn’t been convinced; not even turning from the game of FIFA Niall was whipping his ass at.  “I know Nick told you that you were boring. I get it, it sucked and it’s an awful thing to say when dumping someone. But Nick’s an… a…”  
"Dickwad?” Niall offered.

Liam paused, “Sure. Whatever. The point is he’s awful. You don’t need to pull some stupid stunt to prove yourself to him. Especially when it involves… well…”

But none of what Liam said really matters, and Harry can’t remember half of it. No matter how you spin it, Harry ended up at St Augustine’s Lutheran Church anyways, with a tote bag full of seemingly innocent items. He’s got his headphones in, blaring the cheesiest pop tunes he could find, even though the online instructions told him not to bring any electronics.

What’s the point of summoning the devil if you can’t take pictures to show your ex? He’s also got a printout of those instructions with the important parts highlighted, a mirror that used to hang on his door, seven red (cinnamon scented) candles, a can of Kocher salt, a box of matches from the hotel he and Nick stayed in when they went to Moscow, and a long red ribbon.  
Harry heads around to the back door, which he might have hinted to the maintenance man, would make him so grateful if it were to be left unlocked. “I just want to get some extra praying in. Get closer to God.” He’d explained with a smile and flutter of his eyelashes 

He wipes his hands on his black pants, palms sweating already. Harry tugs the door open and steps inside. The door whooshes shut behind him, taking away the only light source. Taking a deep breath, he leans on the nearest structure he can find and waits for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Very quickly, he realizes that he’s propped against a miniature statue of Jesus nailed to the cross and a cold chill drips down his spine.

Once he can make out enough to not bump into anything, he sinks into a pew. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Harry says aloud. “It won’t work."  
   
So, he thinks, why am I so freaked out?  
-  
He decides on a Sunday school classroom, mostly because the murals of Jesus smiling and holding baby ducks/children/the sick/the poor, etc., comforts him. It takes him a few minutes to get everything set up. Harry leans the mirror against the wall, secures the red ribbon around it with a double knot, and makes a thick half circle of salt. He doubles up the amount of salt, until the can is empty and a half-inch-high barrier sits between him and the mirror.

Harry sets out the seven candles, trying his best to keep the spacing even. With hands that are only shaking slightly, he strikes the match. It takes four tries to get the first lit, and then three more matches to make sure all of the candles are burning brightly. Enough time has passed that the first candle now has a few drips of wax running down its side.  
Once that’s done, Harry pauses and takes a step back. It’d be easy enough to just leave now, Harry thinks. He could disassemble everything and walk away with no more than just a bit of embarrassment. The only thing that stops him is Nick.

Walking away now is what Nick would expect. And he came here to prove Nick wrong, didn’t he?

So, Harry stands and walks to the door, but instead of leaving he turns the crucifix hanging on the wall upside down, and then drags his hand down to the light switch.  
This is it, Harry thinks. No chickening out now. He turns the light off and his corner of the windowless room becomes dark, save for the warm light the candles gives off. Harry makes his way back to the mirror and sits cross-legged, glad he picked pants that were loose enough to allow him to do so.

Staring into the mirror, Harry’s mind goes blank. He pulls his instruction packet out of his bag and flips through it.

“ Face the mirror and stare deeply into it, concentrating on your desired outcome. There are no incantations, no arcane strings of Latin you have to recite. Just look into the mirror and wish as hard as you can for the Devil to appear there. After a few moments of this, when you feel ready, close your eyes and count to ten. Then open them.”

Harry hums and haws for a few minutes, not really wanting to just stare into a mirror. With a sense of finality, Harry lays down the instructions, rests his chin in his hand, and stares.

And stares.

And stares.

When his eyes get sore, Harry closes them and begins to count.

One

Harry’s really not looking forward to the results.

Two

No matter if the devil’s there or not.

Three

Honestly?

Four

He’s a little disappointed at the ceremony.

Five

A little Latin would’ve at least created some atmosphere.

Six

“Do I know any Latin?”

Seven

Hm…

Eight

“Carpe Diem.”

Nine

That’s a little better.

Ten

Harry opens his eyes and -

holy shit that is not at all what he expected.

There’s a rather shocking absence of blood red skin, horns, hooves, and anything you might normally associate with the Devil. Instead, a pair of dazzling blue eyes stares back at Harry. Of course, there’s a face along with the eyes. (A rather lovely fairy-like face) Harry’s surprised, to say the least. His mouth is dry, and if he thought his palms were sweaty before, they’re in a whole new league now.

The Devil chuckles, and the sound seems to echo for an improbable amount of time. In a deep rasping voice that shakes the room and the contents of it, he speaks.  
“I smell… cinnamon. I am enraged!” On the last word, the background in the mirror bursts into flame, and Harry’s ears are abruptly filled with the sound of high pitched screaming. Harry reels back in fear, but is careful not to look away from the mirror. That part of the instructions was highlighted and triple underlined in red.

The flames fade and the Devil starts to laugh, which Harry can barely hear over the ringing in his ears. In a voice that’s significantly more pleasant, and doesn’t cause any effects on the room Harry sits in, he says, “Mate, I’m just fucking with you.” Though fucking comes out more like “fookin”, and if Harry weren’t as dazed or paralyzed by fear, he might actually laugh. The Devil’s face becomes serious.

“Are you laughing at me?”

Harry shakes his head quickly. 

“Then let’s get down to business. What do you desire, human?”

Harry has to search for the words. He starts to reach for his instruction packet again, but the Devil’s mouth quirks up at the corner and Harry drops his hand. Harry licks his chapped lips and threads his hands together.

Did the packet say the exact words were necessary? Or what the words were? He can’t remember now. Now that he’s actually in the situation, he wishes that he might’ve treated everything a little more seriously.

“I wish…” He begins, slowly, “to challenge you in a game of question-and-response.”

The Devil, in response, simply begins the game. “What is the air-speed-velocity of an un-laden swallow?”

Harry pauses. He’s sure the instructions warned him that this would happen, that the questions would be near impossible. “Um… African or European?” He says, with a wry smile.  
The Devil’s face doesn’t seem to change, and Harry has to assume that he’s hallucinating the glint in his eyes. 

“Clever human… you may ask me your question now." 

“Aren’t you going to tell me if I was wrong or right?”

“That’s the entire game, pet.” Harry frowns at the literal pet name. Harry is stunned. He didn’t think he’d actually be able to summon the Devil, let alone think ahead of a question he’d want to know. So, he pulls out his phone. “Lovely case.” The Devil notes, and Harry just might be a little freaked out at the literal Devil commenting on his cheap aquarium phone-case. Careful to hold it up and keep the Devil in his line of sight while he unlocks his phone. Niall and Liam grin at him from his lockscreen, their arms wrapped around each other. A rose dangles from Niall’s lips, a product of an ill-fated tango dancing class they’d attended at the local dive bar. 

Abruptly jolting out of the memory, Harry realizes that he has no service. Not a single bar.

He’s beginning to think a room in a church basement not matter how cheery the murals, may not have been the best choice for a Devil summoning ceremony.  
“Um… if I take a picture of you, will it show up?” The Devil raises his eyebrows.

“Never heard that one before…” He shrugs. “Am I a some kind of ghost?” Harry waits for the rest of the answer, but it never comes. Instead, the Devil presses his mouth into a thin, firm line. His eyes flicker over the various points of Harry’s face, but Harry doesn’t look from the spot right between his eyes. Silently, he snaps a picture.  
“What’s your name?”

“Harry,” comes the soft reply.

There’s no prompt for anything more. Harry can dimly remember something about the power of a name in the instructions, but it’s so hard to think back to all those paragraphs. There’s a magnetic pull towards the mirror, but Harry knows he can’t knock over the candle or breach the salt circle. That’s when all Hell would literally break loose.

The Devil seems to mull over the answer, though It’s just a name. Only five letters, two syllables, completely insignificant. He draws out his next words. “Well, Harry, has anyone ever told you that you’ve got a fairly handsome face?”

 What happens next is a reflex. It’s a stupid reflex, and Harry realizes it the second he’s fully turned his face from the mirror to hide his blush. He’s lost sight of the person in the mirror. Harry’s mind reels to remember what the consequence is. He figures it out the moment he turns back to look at the mirror.

 It’s empty, except for Harry’s own bewildered face.

He’s been fooled. 

 Once he’s registered this fact, and as soon as the dread starts to sink in, all the candles are blown out by a sudden gust. The salt is scattered, and the mirror falls forwards and shatters, some shards even reaching Harry. The lights flicker on and then off, and the lightbulbs burst with a loud crackling. 

 Harry jumps up and runs for the door as little shards of white glass rain down. The lock clicks as soon as he gets his hand on the knob. It’s a cruel game, and even though he knows he’s trapped, Harry still tries. He pulls out his phone, but before he can even check the amount of bars he has, the screen shatters just a violently as the mirror and goes black. A scream rips its way out of his throat as he slams his fists against the door. “Help! Somebody!” He feels his knuckles split with the force he uses. Suddenly, against his will, Harry’s arms just go limp at his sides.  
 Out of options, he retreats into a corner, and despite his best efforts, whimpers pitifully. Though he can’t see anything, he can feel something materialize out of the darkness. The room is silent for a moment aside from Harry’s ragged breathing. Then, he hears footsteps. He counts them, hears them get louder and feels the floorboards beneath his feet tremble with the weight of whatever’s coming. Harry can feel the same weight pressing in around him and the air seems to get thicker. The footsteps get to their loudest and stop abruptly. Harry feels as if he’s about to pass out, either from sheer terror or oxygen deprivation.

 Suddenly, there’s an arm on either side of Harry, boxing him in. Two blue eyes seem to appear out of nowhere, and with a sinking feeling, Harry realizes the last time he saw those eyes, they were on the other side of the mirror. Harry wishes he would’ve grabbed a mirror shard, and then he’d at least have something to defend himself. He’s not even sure that’d work on the Devil, and he’s not even sure –or willing to believe- that this is even real.

 But the breath he can feel on his face is too real to be ignored, nor can the frantic beating of his heart be waved away as a dream.

 “So,” comes a voice, and Harry doesn’t even want to think about who that voice belongs to, “I think it’s your turn to ask me a question.”

 Harry wants to say that he doesn’t want to play this game anymore, and that he’s done. He wants to duck under one of the arms caging him in, walk out of the room, go back to his shared flat, make himself a cup of tea, and climb into bed. But Harry’s not that stupid. He’s stupid enough to get himself into his situation, but not stupid enough to think he can just get out of it now.  
 His mind’s going a mile a minute, and he can’t get a reasonable question to form in his head. It takes a few moments of his mouth simply opening and closing with no sound before he gets it right.

 “Will I be able to walk out of this room tonight?” There’s a laugh that’s unfittingly light for this situation, and the eyes-which are the only thing Harry can really see- crinkle into happy half-moons. Still, there’s something sinister there behind the laughter. A darkness that makes Harry’s entire body almost nauseous. Despite that, Harry feels a shred of hope embed itself (rather painfully) in his abdomen.

  “No.” The answer drops like a weight, crushing Harry’s ribs and taking all the air out of his lungs. He knew this would be the answer, but hearing it is a whole different thing than expecting it.  
  Harry swallows, trying to bring saliva into his impossibly dry mouth. “Oh.”

 The next moments come in snapshots to Harry. He’s sure he’s about to pass out from the sheer terror.

  “My turn again. What’s your name?”

 The answer, barely a whisper, “I already told you that.”

“Don’t play dumb. It’s not an attractive shade on you.” A pause. The arms on either side of him move in.

  When the voice comes, it’s dripping something Harry can’t describe, but he knows it’s dangerous. “Harry. You’re a smart boy. Answer the question.”

 Harry doesn’t want to. He can see the instructions perfectly now in the darkness, and he knows how this will end. “Harry Edward Styles.” The last syllable echoes, sealing his fate.

 There’s a brush of fingertips over the chain around his neck. The fingers pick up the pendant hanging there and then drop it abruptly. It thuds against Harry’s collarbone almost painfully. “Perfect. I’m Louis, by the way.” The arms on either side of him drop.

 And then Harry’s soul is sucked straight to hell.

-  
Hell, Harry decides, looks a lot like an expensive hotel. Or at least, the part of Hell he’s seen does.

He’d woken up in an extremely comfortable bed, flat on his back with his arms crossed over his chest, mimicking the way a dead body lays in its coffin. Goose bumps rose on Harry’s arms and he’d quickly climbed out of bed. Then, he’d checked himself over. He was in the same clothes, and he even still had the Band-Aid on his finger from an unfortunate stray cat incident, but his shoes were oddly missing, as were his socks. The floors of his cell, which is nice but a cell nonetheless, are hardwood, and had chilled his feet.

For being Hell, it was awfully cold.

But Harry had woken up at least two hours ago, and there was only so much time someone could spend confined, even if outside of the room might be a flaming abyss that you’ll never return from.

That’s another thing. Harry’s tried the door, it was one of the first things he did, and it’s not locked. He glances at the door again. He’s not quite sure what could happen, but he’s taken some things off the list, such as being a virgin sacrifice. First, he’s not a pretty girl in a white dress, and second, he’s not exactly a virgin.

Just as Harry becomes sure that he’s come to a conclusion another half hour later, hand resting on the door knob, breath stuck in his throat, a parade of loud footsteps goes by outside. They don’t even pause at the door, instead fading away at the far end of what Harry assumes is a hallway. This prompts him to wait another hour or so until he’s painfully sure there’s no one else coming,. Heart thumping, Harry slowly opens the door, and steps out.

Harry realizes he was wrong about his assumption. He’s not in a hallway, or dungeon, or scary sex play room, –blame the copy of Fifty Shades sitting on his bedside table at home- instead he’s in a spacious courtyard. Harry steps out a little further, and steps on one of his missing shoes. There’s no sign of his socks, or the other shoe, which Harry is a little bitter about. He sits down to put his one shoe on, since it’s better than nothing, and surveys his surroundings a bit more closely.

The door he came out of is in the centre of a wall with six more doors on either side of it. Two other walls that box the courtyard in are identical, and more duplicates of the same model are stacked on top of each other. Harry loses count at seventeen levels, and a few levels after where he stops, the levels disappear into an ominous mist. On the wall opposite Harry, an ornate elevator whirs quietly. The whirring and the frantic beating of Harry’s heart are the only sounds, aside from the gentle trickle of water.

The courtyard itself, aside from the mist, is rather lovely. There’s a stone fountain in the middle with water trickling quietly over its sides and onto some artfully arranged rocks. There are paths that lead from each side of the room to the centre, where a few benches sit around the fountain. The paths themselves are made of mosaic tile, and Harry’s tempted to follow one of them, go sit on one of the benches and never move from that spot. However, the mist leaves a damp chill in the air that makes Harry want to move on.

For as many rooms as Harry can see, it’s surprising that there’s no one else in the corridor. Slowly, Harry makes his way down the path to the center of the circle. Instead of stopping and planting himself on a bench, Harry continues to the opposite wall. The elevator doors open with a ding when he steps in front of the elevator, and Harry steps in without hesitation. There’s a little bit of pink fuzz on the floor. It’s the same fuzz that his socks always leave on his feet. The doors close with a gentle sound, and Harry swallows hard. He looks at the panel of gleaming buttons. There’s an insane amount of them, glowing dimly. Some are numbered like a regular elevator. Others have strange symbols- one of them maybe even being a swimming pool. There’s a row of them at the bottom simply have keyholes beside them instead of labels. Feeling overwhelmed, Harry settles for the very first button which has a little brass “L” beside it. He hopes that it means lobby, and not something like leeches, or little children screaming at you for the rest of your miserable life. The elevator begins a slow descent. Harry stares at the mirrored surface of the doors, but doesn’t recognize the person staring back. There are deep bags the colour of violets under his eyes, and he looks unearthly pale. He looks like he needs coffee, a long hot shower, and a good slap upside the head. The elevator doors slide open, revealing a long, dim hallway. Harry can only see about 15 feet ahead, but he can make out the rumpled little piece of cloth that can only be one of his socks. Harry walks over to where it lays, a little left of the centre of the hallway. This puts it in a position closer to the little passage way that branches off of the main hall Harry is in.

It’s another game, and Harry, frankly, is sick of games, but he has no choice but to go along with it unless he wants to wander along the seemingly endless hallway forever. Spending an eternity in Hell is one thing, but spending it walking in a dreary hall is an entirely different type of torture. Harry picks up his sock and shoves it in his pocket, continuing on his way in the new direction. Some of the doors in this passage have labels, but Harry doesn’t pause to read them. He keeps his eyes peeled for another sock or shoe, but is disappointed when he reaches a point of the hall where he his only option is a left turn, and the hall opens into a wide lobby-like area, complete with a check in desk, bank of elevators, and lavish decor. 

There’s also a lounge set off to the side, and a few people a milling around, some in wait-staff uniforms, some in casual clothes, and others dressed to the nines. Someone is sitting at the piano in the far corner of the lounge playing Debussy. The whole scene is oddly peaceful, and Harry thinks for a moment that maybe he’s wrong about the whole “Hell” thing, that it was all a big mistake, or a hallucination, or something that ended up with him checked into a swanky hotel.

Then he spots his other sock –neon pink with banana print- sitting in the middle of the lobby floor. Feeling a bit ridiculous in one shoe, Harry pads over to the sock and picks it up. Now he can see his shoe, waiting on the other side of the glass door on the foggy sidewalk. A few people are out and about outside, jackets protecting them from the damp chill that slaps Harry in the face when he steps through the automatic doors when the glide open. A few even glance down at the lone shoe as they pass, looking mildly confused. 

It’s so absurdly normal that Harry’s managed to convince himself that this whole Hell thing was just paranoia. He probably did the whole Devil summoning thing, it didn’t work, he went to a bar and somewhere between the bar and a random hookup, he ended up here. The mist in the courtyard was just some effect of his hangover, and the elevator was some kind of weird art piece about accessibility or something like that. He runs a hand through his matted hair and picks up his other shoe. 

With both of his sockless feet safely inside his beat-up Keds, Harry surveys the street he’s exited onto. A fancy marquee-style sign above him indicates that he’s just exited a hotel called Dante’s. Across the street looks like some kind of club, with throbbing bassy music spilling out onto the street whenever the doors wing open even though it seems to be midday. The neon sign hanging above the cyan blue velvet doors reads “Pandemonium” in blocky yellow text. Beside the club is a casino called Snake Eyes. Harry figures that thats his best bet of finding a phone to call Niall or Liam to pick him up. 

The inside of Snake Eyes puts Harry on edge the second he passes through the heavy gold-trimmed glass doors. There are plenty of people milling about, but the blood red carpet seems to muffle all of the sounds slightly. There’s a wide flight of carpeted stairs in front of him with two neat golden banisters dividing the staircase into thirds. There’s no sign of any workers, or payphones for that matter. Harry decides to venture in a bit further. From the top of the stairs, Harry can see the whole casino floor on the other side. It seems almost otherworldly.  
For some reason, Harry can’t seem to will his eyes to focus on any thing in particular. His sight just skims over the tables and the figures surrounding them, gliding over the banks of slot machines.There doesn’t seem to be a common dress code here. A man in a Hawaiian print shirt and cargo shorts brushes past Harry just as a woman in a Flapper-style dress standing at the bottom of the stairs. He doesn’t recognize her, but something in the red-painted quirk of her smile captures him. Almost as if he isn’t moving his own limbs, he jerkily starts to descend. She seems to constantly be in motion, the fringe of sequins at the bottom of her dress rustling faintly. 

“Hey there, soldier.” She purrs. Her eyes are a strange grey, her brown hair styled in a neat bob. Harry’s mouth is dry and he can feel his pulse in his ears. His thoughts slip to a wildlife special he watched on the BBC with Niall about frogfish. The documentary had detailed the fish’s hunting patterns, which included wiggling a fleshy appendage to lure their prey within striking distance. The woman’s pale hand lands on his wrist, stroking little circles into the exposed skin. “You’re new here, aren’t you kitten?” Harry’s lips are opening for some kind of answer when a firm hand lands on his shoulder, jolting him out of his stupor. 

“Clementine, that’s enough.” There’s an alarmingly handsome boy attached to the hand, standing just behind him now. His eyes are a warm brown colour- but they’re unmistakably cold as they bore into Clementine, who just rolls her eyes. 

“Oh come on, Zayn. Heaven-Bounders never wander in here.” 

Apparently, Zayn doesn’t think this is worthy of an answer and starts to steer Harry back the way he came with a firm grip on his shoulder. “Why the hell would you wander into a place called Snake Eyes?” 

The smoky air of the casino is making it hard for Harry’s thoughts to reach his mouth. “Uh… looking for a phone.” 

The two boys break back out into the cool daylight. The fogginess in his mind began to lift, enough for him to notice that Zayn was steering him past Pandemonium towards another  
building he hadn’t bothered to notice before. Dimly, he realizes he should ask Zayn where exactly they are. However, Zayn is speaking into a phone. 

A phone!

Still, Harry feels obligated to let this strange boy finish his conversation. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got him. Snake Eyes, of all places.” There’s a long pause. “Well you were the one that tried to lead him outside. I know, it’s not normally in this part of town.” They pass into the building- a restaurant it seems, with the same decor scheme as the Italian place Harry, Louis, and Liam would have dinner at whenever there was reason for celebration. Zayn keeps a firm grip on his shoulder even once they’re inside, leading him past multiple filled tables to a large booth at the back. 

There’s a man sitting alone there. Harry recognizes him immediately. He staggers a few steps and falls to his knees in front of a potted plant –a fern, he notes- and throws up in it. He hasn’t eaten in hours, so only bile that burns at the back of his throat and leaves a bitter taste in his mouth comes out. Harry coughs and wipes hand across the back of his mouth. He’s shaking so hard he thinks he can feel his bones clattering, is sure he can hear it in the back of his mind. 

It’s real. It was all real. The ceremony, the mirror shattering, and the strange blue eyes floating across from him. Harry lays his head down on the black and cream patterned carpet, the room tilting and swaying under his cheek. Briefly, he closes his eyes and focuses on where his body comes into contact with the ground. Cheek to shoulders, chest to hips, thighs to shins.  
“Have you quite finished?” An impatient voice sounds from somewhere above Harry. 

“Oh come on, Louis. Cut him some slack. Most people don’t leave their room for a week.” 

“And most people don’t try to summon me. I don’t have time for vomiting in foliage.”

Zayn sighs and kneels down beside Harry. “You need some water?” A hand briefly brushes through his hair, too practiced and precise to bring him any real comfort. 

“Tell me this isn’t real…” And Harry knows he’s being a cliché, knows he should make some retort that some God out there will consider witty enough to lift him out of Hell. He should at least make some effort to do something productive, but the taste of bile still burns in the back of his throat and he’s so fucking scared. 

“This isn’t real.” The impatient voice- Louis, no, Satan- speaks again. He pauses. “Did that help?”

On shaky limbs, Harry forces himself to his knees. His eyes catch on Louis. He’s shorter than he had expected, but the way he holds himself makes him seem to take up the entire booth. A black menu lays open in front of him, with a glass of lemon water just to the right of it. “Let me answer some question I know you want to ask. You’re in Hell. Yes this means you’re dead. No, you can’t go back. Our burning pits of agony are out of order at the moment. Are you ready to stop causing a fuss now?” 

Harry’s jaw almost drops. His blood begins to boil. He thinks of his mates, of the body he surely left behind in the church. He thinks of the red marker on the calendar on his fridge noting Gemma’s upcoming visit. Without thinking, Harry is on his feet and striding over to the table. He slams his fist down it hard enough to make the silverware rattle and the ice cubes in Louis’s drink clink together. The entire restaurant seems to still. Harry draws in a breath and hisses, “Listen, you sick fuck-“ 

“You’ve got some puke on your chin.” Louis’ gaze remains cool blue, unbothered by Harry’s outburst. “I’ve arranged this meeting out of good faith, Harry. I’d like to give you a purpose here. But if you’d like to wander aimlessly for the rest of eternity, fine by me.” Harry waits a moment before slowly sinking into the leather booth across from Louis. The other boy grins at him, and Harry tries to pretend that it reaches his eyes. A waiter immediately swoops in and grabs Harry’s drink order. 

Louis doesn’t speak again until Harry’s London fog is sitting steaming in front of him. “I’m going to run on the assumption that you did little to no research before your little escapade.” Harry nods mutely. “Good. I hate having to correct people. So far, no one up there has got it even close to right. I’ll be frank with you, Harry. It’s very very rare that we get Heaven-bound individuals down here, as they very rarely attempt the kind of thing that you did. So you’re a bit of an anomaly. That puts you at risk.”

“What kind of risk?”

“Please hold all questions till the end, lad. As I was saying, you’re at risk. I really don’t want to get into the schematics of it and I’m already behind because of your little outburst, but Heaven and Hell run on energy. Essentially, whatever the inhabitants put out is how the place is reflected. That’s why heaven’s all sunshine and lollipops and we’re mist and shady casinos. Got it?” 

Harry nods mutely. His thoughts are racing a thousand miles a minute, and he figures for the moment at hand it’s easier to just accept the narrative being fed to him. Louis pauses for a moment to take a sip of his lemon water. Harry’s drink sits untouched. The restaurant around them is absurdly normal. Low conversations thrum about and there’s quiet instrumental music being piped in through unseen speakers. It’s the normalcy of it all that makes Harry feel like he’s choking. “Anyways, as I was saying,” Louis sets his glass down with a thud, “Sinners have a much different energy than the Heaven-bound. And a Heaven-bound individual kind of… knocks the system out of equilibrium for a while. Until the balance goes back to normal… you’re going to be attracting a lot of attention. While I appreciate the energy you’re contributing to the community, I don’t appreciate the…” Louis pauses as if looking for the right word.

“Ruckus.” Zayn offers from his position standing beside Harry.

“Ah, yes. The ruckus this will cause us. So to save us the trouble, I’d like to offer you a job.” 

Harry blinks. A job? He thinks of the little coffee shop across the street from a law firm that he had worked at, of the schedule hanging in the back room. Arlene was going to have a hell of a time convincing Mark to take his shifts. He couldn’t say he’d exactly miss preparing complicated drinks for huffy business people rushing in and out on their lunch breaks. But a job for the Devil?  
“Um… what did you have in mind?” 

Louis pulls a thick file out of the briefcase sitting by his side and thwomps it onto the table. The neat font on the front spells out his name, and a little picture of him he doesn’t remember having taken is paper clipped to it as well. A few sticky notes protrude from the top and Louis flips to a page without hesitation. “I see you have a degree in sociology. I’m sure we can find some kind of use for that, can’t we Zayn?” 

Zayn nods mutely and Harry feels an unexpected burst of embarrassment. Why should he care what the occupants of Hell think about his degree? And why should he have wanted a proper job from them anyways? Louis finishes the last of his water and sets down the empty glass, and Harry suddenly feels very nauseous again. “Now, I think you should stay on the same floor as me and Z-“

And then Harry’s up and running. He darts through the few tables and out the door, hitting his stride once he’s out in the fog again. He can barely feel the burn in his lungs as he runs past Dante’s and Pandemonium, out into the unknown. His thoughts are full of half formed questions and completely void of answers. He keeps circling around to that thick folder Louis held. All the details of his life, he assumed. Right there. In his hands to be used however he saw fit. 

The road he’s on seems to stretch on forever, the fog in the distance never seeming to get any closer or farther away. He loses track of time, his muscles beginning to feel strained.  
Abruptly, two figures appear out of the mist. His steps start to falter, unsure if there are any really friendly occupants of Hell. Surely they can’t be worse than Louis’ already proven himself to be. As the figures become more clear, Harry realizes that there was no real point in hoping at all.

“What took you so long?” Quips Louis, making a show of checking his watch. Zayn stands at his side, watching him impassively. Neither have time to catch Harry when he faints.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based off of a post on a Tumblr I once saw dedicated to creepy type things. Some people may also recognize this story, as I've attempted to tell it before. However, I really don't think I did it right. I also didn't finish, so I'm trying again! These first couple of chapters might be a little clunky as I get used to this whole Hell thing, but I really hope you'll stick around to see how this goes... cause I've got lots planned. Oh! And the title is from Use Somebody by Kings of Leon.


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